


I want you to stay

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-26
Updated: 2013-04-26
Packaged: 2017-12-09 12:46:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/774354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account





	I want you to stay

_I want you to stay_

Title from the song Stay by Rihanna ft. Mikkey Ekko, and the song also inspired this os. It’s beautiful; hear it if you haven’t. Sorry for my surplus use of the word _and_ and for all the fucking _italics_ , for the downright nonsense, and wow, okay, all the run-on sentences that basically are the work of this os.

_Harry hides behind a lens and believes that someday he will capture every single beautiful thing on the planet. Louis is just struggling to make it through day after day. Harry has the persistence and, maybe, Louis has the will. Louis shows him where true beauty really lays and Harry just attempts to make Louis smile more._

 

\--

He doesn’t really understand how he gets here. He understands the basics: they met, they fell in love, and now they’re here. He loves him, so it’s a bit obligatory of Louis to be here. _No_ , Louis thinks, definitely not obligatory. No one is forcing him. He needs to be here. He just doesn’t want to be; he wishes he was anywhere else in the world but here.

He sits down on one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs they have lined up outside the rooms. The hallways are sparkling clean; the floors recently waxed and spotless, the walls, well, just washed-out and grey. Everything is white here and Louis hates it. He hates how clean it is-- everything, _everyone_ , so sanitized. The smell is the worse, he thinks.

Louis leans his head back against the white, spotless wall, and it suddenly feels so heavy. He closes his eyes, and his eyelids, too, feel heavy. Behind his eyelids are flickering images, all of them of Harry; his pale face, and his minty eyes; from the first time they met, until a few moments earlier when—when Harry got sick.

\--

There’s a bridge in London named the Hornsey Lane Bridge. Harry’s heard of it, heard of the severe things that happen there. The bridge is far from where he lives, so yeah; he surprises himself when he gets into his Range Rover and drives to the bridge.

Curiosity killed the cat, Harry thinks, but people have killed themselves here.

The bridge isn’t extensive like the Golden Gate Bridge he once visited in California, or the Brooklyn Bridge in New York; it’s rather short, but wide, and it has gone without care for several years. The walls of the bridge are adorned with flowers, some wilting, some blossoming, and cards. Cards with words expressing sorrow and distress, some encouragement, most words of hope, written by people who’ve lost loved ones, people trying to prevent a loss, people, strangers, who care. 

Harry wraps his arms around his chest, protecting him against the chill of the gloomy February afternoon, against the tightness of his heart. His fingers twitch—they want to reach for the Nikon hidden in the pocket of his peacoat; they want his eyes and the lens to line up with the drying flowers, the yellowing of the letters, the bright red of some roses still wrapped up in plastic; they want to press down on the shutter button and capture something so tragic, so heartbreaking, something so _real_.

It’s getting dark and the trees off to the ends of the bridge are tall and murky, creating haunting shadows that push Harry further into the bridge. He focuses on the crimson roses wrapped in clear plastic; they’re bright against the grey of the walls and the fading papers and he presses down on the shutter button. He shivers, a strong ripple of fear shooting through his body. He’s not scared to be out on the bridge by himself, holding a terribly expensive camera, no.

He’s scared for the people who have died here. For the strangers Harry never will know. He leans against the side of the bridge, starring down at the gray blue waters so far below. Fear wants to swallow up his lungs—he could never imagine doing that. He couldn’t imagine leaving everything, everyone, behind and jumping. But he knows he doesn’t _understand_ , he doesn’t know the reasons behind taking your own life, he’s not sure if there is one, maybe, besides extreme sadness and hopelessness.

Harry thinks doesn’t he ever wants to know. Because, _jesus fuck_ , the water is so far down below and freezing cold, and it’s immediate death that one is running to and greeting. The impact of the water on your body is like lava on ice—fast. It’s quick and you’re melting instantly until all that’s left is water.

He tightens his grip on the camera and tries to swallow the massive piece of burning coal in his throat. He walks further down the bridge. He captures a single lily pinned up against the wall with duct tape. The lily is withering and the tips that were once snow white are now brown and yellow. There’s a small piece of paper taped next to the flower; it’s a fading pink colour with white lines and has the Hello Kitty logo on the top, and shit, Harry knows he shouldn’t, but he’s squats down and takes a big breath.  

_Daddy,_

_We miss you! Mommy says you’re in heaven and that you’re smiling all the time now. It was my birthday last Monday and I turned 11! Mommy says that you saw me blow out the candles from up in the sky! I had to blow up the balloons for my party with grandpa, since you weren’t here to do it with me but its okay. I got second place in the spelling bee. I know you always said to go for first but that trying is what’s important. I tried really hard, Daddy. I hope you read this from heaven and that it makes you smile. I love you a lot alot a lot._

_Lily xx_

His vision is blurry as he captures the letter alongside the flower. He wipes at his face, the hot tears leaving a trail on his cold face. Harry doesn’t know why the hell he’s here or why his fingers keep pressing down on his camera.

There’s a large neon yellow poster board further down the bridge. _If you’re looking for a sign not to jump, this is it_ is carefully written in black bold letters with a number on the bottom. _It’s okay to be afraid but we care and we can help_. He moves backwards until his back reaches the wall across from the poster, he lifts his camera up to his face, and he takes a photograph of the sign standing out vibrantly besides the dozens of pale flowers and letters.

 _It’s okay to be afraid_ runs through his mind. He doesn’t know, he doesn’t comprehend, but something tells him that fear has to be the one that gives you a push as you stand on the edge. To take your life in anyway—it has to be fear.

He reads more of the letters, some personal dedicated to certain people.

_Cassie,_

_We miss you, darling. Harley says hi and that he misses your daily walks to Kingston Park..._

_Luke,_

_Miss you bro. Hope you’re doing better wherever the hell you are. The bands not the same without you..._

And a lot impersonal with encouraging words.

_Please don’t do it. Please don’t jump. It may seem like the world is shit and that jumping is your only choice but it’s not..._

_If you’re reading this please know there are so many people who care about you. There is always a way. Jumping is not your only option; there are so many people who would help..._

 His clench on the Nikon tightens as he walks off the bridge with endless questions running through his mind, blurry vision, and tightness in his chest.

\--

Something pricks at his skin and sends shivers up his spine. He doesn’t know why he’s here, or how he got here—it seems his mind was lost in the hazy clouds that invaded his skull and had his body on autopilot as he drove here at seven in the morning. He hadn’t been here in a month and for some reason he feels very vulnerable, very exposed without his camera. All he knows is that he’s fucking cold; his hands are numb, his balls are about to fall of at any moment, and that—fuck. Fuck, someone is on the bridge.

Harry’s breath catches in his throat and his heart accelerates at a very dangerous speed because _holy fucking shit_ , someone is on the bridge, on the edge, on the other side of wall, looking down at the bottomless waters, and they seem to _understand._

And Harry’s frozen. He’s frozen while a male, a young male he makes out, is getting ready to jump, ready to end their life at seven thirty on a Wednesday morning, and he’s just bloody frozen. The guy sobs loudly and Harry’s brain wakes up, making his feet shuffle, and he’s picking up speed, but the two-day snow is making things slippery, but he gets there and the guy sees him.

“Please, please don’t dare come closer.”

His voice is soft and poignant, and just sounds so fucking _tired_. His eyes are the colour of the Caribbean Sea and they dart around, looking Harry up and down with an exasperated expression. Harry thinks he’s gorgeous, gorgeous in a miserable, maddening way with his caramel fringe sweeping over one side and his thin pink lips turned down. But his eyes—his eyes are the pure definition of fear—fear and sadness and no hope.

Harry’s speechless. His mouth is gaping and despite the early spring weather, he’s sweating underneath his favourite white jumper. He doesn’t know how to save a life, what to say, or if he can _even_ save the frantic lad. “I-I,” his brain is fuzzy and overwhelmed and _shit_ , “what are you doing?” He winces because out of all the things that could possibly be said, he goes and says that?

Blue eyes squint with annoyance and his voice is gravely, “What does it look like?” He turns his head back around to face the water, but his knuckles are iron-hot white gripping the bars on top of the wall.

Harry doesn’t think he’s ever met anyone so beautiful in his life and a wave of nausea comes over him. He finally understands the meaning behind _heart wrenching_. “I just, I don’t understand. Don’t do this, things--things can’t be so bad that you—“

A loud, strangled noise comes from the boy who can’t be much older than Harry and is he—is he laughing? His body covered by only a loose The Who tee, blue skinnies, and a handful of tattoos, is shaking with laughter. Blue eyes flit up and down Harry critically, eyeing his designer trench coat, his Diesel jeans, and wow, okay, Harry has never felt so exposed in his life.

“What would a rich pretty boy know about things being _bad_?” the laughter turns into soft gasps for air, and while the words spoken are meant to be harsh they’re said too softly to jab at Harry. The grasp on the bars loosens slightly before small hands clutch tightly again.

Harry shivers and sucks in a lungful of bitter, March air that turns into an instant tremble down his spine. “I-I. I’ve had bad things happen before,” he murmurs. It wasn’t supposed to be this... complicated. The stranger was supposed to listen to Harry speak gentle, convincing words and climb back over, not question Harry.

A smirk plays out on thin rose-petal pink lips and lifeless eyes flash. “Bad enough to attempt to off yourself, mate?” He already knows the answer, because no, Harry wouldn’t try to kill himself, and it’s obvious by the alarm in his minty eyes.

Harry wonders if this is what Jack felt when Rose was about to jump, but no, probably not because Jack was smooth and handsome and knew what to say, while Rose didn’t really want to jump, just maybe wanted to be saved.“No, I guess I’ve just been lucky.”

The lad shakes his head, a wispy lock of dirty gold hair falling on his face. Harry wants to reach over and put it back in place and he wants to grab him by his small waist and pull him to safety and he _wantswantswants_ anything other than the boy with the deep circles under miserable eyes to jump.

“I can help you.”

He scoffs, “Yeah, and how?”

Harry takes a timid step closer, “By listening, by being your friend.”

He shakes his head violently, “You’re wasting my time.”

“No!” Harry panics and moves forward so that he’s close enough to smell the strong scented aftershave, but really, who shaves before trying to off themselves? He’s close enough too see the soft ripples of the March weather running through the lads’ small frame, close enough to eye the goose bumps rising on his arms. He’s close enough to pull him by the waist and drag him over the wall, close enough to save him, but Harry knows he won’t try; it would surely backfire on him.

“W-why?” His lips are the colour of raspberry cotton candy and they can’t stop trembling—the cold is finally getting to him. His body shakes violently now and the numbness in his hands burn against the iron bars; Harry’s positive he won’t hold on for much longer. “Why would you want to help me? I’m fucking insane—I’m fucked up.”

Harry shrugs nonchalantly, “I think we’re all a bit fucked, mate.” He doesn’t have any idea where he’s going with this, what to say, or what to do with his clammy hands because _fuck_ , is this really happening? Is Harry really standing on a bridge trying to prevent a stranger from killing himself? Harry who always had a way with words, a _charmer_ , so they say? Harry who lives with his best friend in a flat in central London and eats Coco Puffs out of beakers for dinner? Harry who loathes pop music and secretly loves watching reality shows on his beloved boxy telly?

So he lays his blue coloured gloved hands on the snow-covered wall of the bridge and breathes. “I think... I believe I can save you. We all need a little saving. A little help from a friend, right? I can be your friend. Maybe, I don’t know, maybe I need saving, too.” Harry’s rambling uncertainly and the boy is just starring at him with impassive azure eyes making his heart clench anxiously because he’s sure the lad thinks he’s just making a load up, and yeah, he kinda is, but _holy shit_ , Harry has never been in a situation similar like this, he’s never dealt with anything remotely suicidal or severe, and _fuck._

“You’ll teach me?” The lad closes his eyes. His arms shake from both the pressure of keeping himself up and out of the bottomless waters, and the glacial spring weather. His chest rises up and down idly and trembles slightly every time he breathes in. His legs quiver, legs that Harry’s certain, in a different situation, obviously, would be perfect to intertwine in with their short length and nicely muscled thighs.  

“Teach you?”

He lad nods, “teach me how to live again?” His eyes open again and Harry sucks in a breath—he had never seen eyes so blue, so defenceless, and so _innocent_.

“Of-of course I will, I will teach you.” Harry smiles tentatively and hopes, hopes to every God he has never believed in, to Buddha and Allah, to every saint, to Mother Theresa and the Pope, to every angel, to everything he fucking knows and doesn’t know, and too all the stars in every galaxy undiscovered and millions of light years away that Blue Eyes will ask for his hand, climb down and let himself hope again.  

The lad closes his eyes again.

Minuets pass with only quiet shivers and loud breaths exchanging.

Harry panics—maybe he misread everything; maybe he’s going to jump off, maybe he’s going to leave this earth hearing Harry’s desperate pleas that turn into mournful screams; maybe Harry’s going to have to pull out his cell phone and call the ambulance; maybe he’s going to get interviewed, appear on the telly, and be recognized around the city as the boy who let the other boy die; and maybe Harry’s going to live with the fact that he couldn’t save a life.

“W-w-what will happen? If I get off of here? Where will I go?” a weary voice makes Harry’s eyes snap open (when did they close?) and he’s met with eyes the colour and depth of the Pacific Ocean.

“You’ll come back to mine. Unless you wish not to?” Harry has no clue on how to teach someone to bloody _live_. He doesn’t want to know what Niall will think of him inviting a complete stranger, a depressed, suicidal one at the most, to live with them. He’s a uni student—he wakes up too early on the weekdays, comes home to study, goes to work, and repeats until the weekend when he attends the occasional party. He’s stuck inside most of the day and he’s supposed to teach someone to _live again_?

The lad disregards his question, “What’ll happen afterwards?”

“I, well, I’m not sure. I’ve never been in this situation before, so, basically. Perhaps I’ll make some hot coffee and get some warm pastries and we’ll do whatever we please.”

“I favour tea.”

“Oh, okay, well—“

And the lad is carefully turning around, his bones quivering from the cold, and he looks at Harry with eyes as blue as the British skies during a blessed summer and as dark and unexplained as an abrupt tsunami ready to destroy homes and take souls.

_Maybe he just needs to be saved._

They’re both quiet as the he jumps over the bar, landing carefully with a soft thud.

Harry can’t remember when he stopped breathing but suddenly air is like cold water and he’s been lost in the scorching Sahara desert for days. Relief is being pumped into his body with every _thumpthumpthump_ of his heart and it wraps itself around his bones because the lad isn’t on the ledge anymore; he’s not contemplating to jump to his death—no, he’s standing, shaking from the cold and the fear and the exposure, peeking at Harry through a caramel fringe like he’s a warm jumper disregarded and thrown into a box labelled _lost and found_ and Harrys’ the one who will pick him up, take him home, and cuddle him on cold nights.

All Harry wants is for the nameless boy with the beautiful, heart-breaking eyes and golden skin marked with symbols and words to learn to love and be loved, to hope, to trust, to live life, to be happy, _to smile_. All Harry wants is to capture the Crayola-pink lips; the striking contrast between the black ink of _it is what it is_ against sunshine-kissed collarbones; the curve of thin brows; the round of a tummy that shows underneath a thin tee; the thickness of thighs so deliciously hidden—all Harry wants is to capture a sad, beautiful boy with a long story and a preference for tea on his camera so he can keep a little of him to himself.

All Harry wants to do is lock their fingers together and throw the key into the river below them.

All Harry _needs_ to do is not fall in love, because love is dangerous, hazardous, risky and it ends up in heart break. He’s pretty damn certain the nameless boy doesn’t need to break even more.

 

\--

His name is _Louis._

Louis Tomlinson.

Yeah, Harry thinks as he says it in his mind over and over again, _Louis_ fits him, _Louis_ is just right, _Louis_ rolls off his tongue in a way that shouldn’t make so much sense, in a way that shouldn’t make his heart stutter.

That, basically, is all Harry knows after two days. That’s all Louis has told him, at least. But just being around him helps Harry learn more. Like how he hates coffee, but loves tea enough to drink it with no sugar, just a little bit of milk. How he can’t sleep well during the nights and how pacing up and down the guest room calms him down some. How he’s conscience of his body, his stomach, the way he pulls on the front of the tees Niall lets him borrow when they hug him. How he prefers anything Harry gives him to wear because it’s long and warm and it smells like someone Louis could get used to. How he has a knack for Harrys’ expensive long, thick jumpers for they shoo away the cold and the numb, and cover up his belly and his arms.

His arms.

He’d first noticed them when Louis reached out to take the fleece blanket taken from the back of his Ranger. It gave Harry a wave of nausea—not from disgust, no, but from sadness. His forearms where home to angry scars—white, rigid, and puckered, but mostly invaded by fresh and irritated cuts.

But all he could notice now, as he sits on the end of the leather sofa with Louis curled up into his favourite blue jumper, lifeless eyes glued to Niall’s plasma, is that this isn’t much of a life he’s living. How was he supposed to teach someone to live, when he himself hardly had a life?

“Louis?”

“Hmm?”

Harry hesitates, pulling on a loose thread of his white v-neck. “What to go out tonight?”

Louis’ eyes don’t move from where Alan Carr is talking nonsense with Robert Downey Jr. “Out where?”

Harry’s damn sure they had more conversations in the hour or so Louis was standing on the bridge than the last two days he’s been here, and fuck, it’s frustrating, because that tiny flicker, shimmer, _possibility of hope_ that Harry had seen in the blue eyes before? Gone—vanished, put out like a bonfire before everyone goes to sleep.

“Just to a pub, yeah? Like, with some friends?  Niall will be there and—“

“Sure.”

Oh, okay, that didn’t take much work, and shit, what if Louis’ an alcoholic? Is Harry holding the rats paw and leading it directly to the cheese inside the trap? “Are you, I don’t know, okay with drinking? Because we don’t have to drink or anything, it’s just.” And maybe Harry made a mistake—he should have just called the police the second he saw Louis on the bridge because, yeah, this isn’t going to work, and Louis is, what? His responsibility now?

Louis is looking at him with an unreadable expression on his face, the one he saves, Harry has noticed, just for him. His eyes, like always, are blank, but his mouth is turned up on one side; almost like a tiny, itsy bitsy smile but...not. Like a smirk and a scowl at the same time, like _he’s making fun of Harry_.

“Just let me get ready, yeah?” and that’s that.

 

“Come in, Harry,” Louis says a half hour later from inside the guest room.

Harry pushes the door open to find him standing in front of a framed photograph picture hanging on the wall—one of Harrys. The room is a nice size, much smaller than Harrys and Nialls. It has a queen bed with an adorning black leather headboard and a matching black dresser. He doesn’t question the black sheet draped over the full-size mirror.

“Who are they?” Louis points to a black and white photograph of two women petting a horse. The room is filled with photographs taken and hung by Harry—most of his family and friends that didn’t fit anywhere in his own room or the living room.

“That,” Harry points out the younger girl with a sweet, closed-lip smile and large round eyes, “is my sister, Gemma. That’s my mum.” His mum has a wide grin and eyes covered by large sunglasses that cover up most of her face and Louis thinks they’re both beautiful. 

“Do you, uh, do you have siblings?” Harry asks and immediately regrets it when Louis’ eyes flash with pain and then they’re indecipherable again. A drop of cold sweat runs down Harry’s back and _fuck_ there’s so much Louis is hiding, and yeah, he understands it, but at the same time he doesn’t understand _anything_.

Louis moves around the room without a word, concentrating on the other photographs. Black and white pictures that show people acting happy, or _being_ happy—Louis wouldn’t really know. Some photographs have Harry in them; in one he’s young with a face and body made of baby fat, the same large, expressive green eyes, and hair cut short to his scalp with a lighter shade of brown and slight waves; in the rest he’s older with a long, lean body—mostly all leg—, big mop of dark curls, and several tattoos scattered here and there.

But still those same, damn sea green eyes that say everything that he can’t, and Louis thinks that they might just kill him.

 

It turns out that Louis likes to drink.

He knows his drinks very well, actually, and he’s not bad at handling his liquor.

And, to Harrys’ surprise, Louis is a happy drunk.

So Harry sits at the end of the U-shaped booth glowering at his best mates because _why the hell do they get to have happy Louis_? Niall catches his eyes from across the booth, the dark lights giving the Irish lad a weird, green tint to his normally sun-bright quiff, and he’s shooting Harry a confused look, darting his pale blue eyes to Louis’ smiling face and back to Harry’s glowering, baffled one on purpose.

Harry just shrugs, because, really? What is he supposed to do? So he takes another drag of his sour-tasting Heineken and just keeps on glowering. Niall cuts off their eye contact to do something on his iPhone and would it be awful to leave Louis here alone with his mates?

No one would believe the Louis Tomlinson here, all wide grins and cheeky comments, taking long pulls of his Corona and Lime, with the perfectly styled quiff, and the borrowed pullover that looks even better on him than it ever did on Niall, was standing from the ledge of a bridge about to leap off just a mere forty-eight hours ago.

Why would they when Harry himself can’t?

Once again, Harry doesn’t _understand_ and he hasn’t ever felt more dim-witted in his fucking life. So he does the thing he knows how to do best.

“Really,” Zayn starts, because when doesn’t Zayn start? “The camera comes out.” Zayn laughs, his eyes squinty and creating deep laughing lines underneath them, and yeah, Zayn’s a beautiful, cynical fucker and the star of many of Harry’ lame ‘photo shoots’ since they were fourteen, but he’s also deep and caring and has admission to the best parties, so Harry keeps him around.

Liam snorts and his whole face lights up in a drunken kinda way, creating small wrinkles on his forehead and they all know tomorrow morning there’ll be voicemails and texts apologizing for _my sad drunken behaviour, really guys, I’m sorry_. Because now Liam is single, again, and single Liam and drunk Liam is the best kind of Liam. “That fucking camera came out before Harry did.”

The table bursts out into laughter and even Harry cracks a smile because they all know that wouldn’t be anywhere as funny if they were sober, and he picks up his camera and aims at Louis.

Louis wearing the happy mask, his eyes lighting up in a way Harry hadn’t seen before and he needs to see it again so _click_.

Louis smiling as Liam talks with his hands and his words slurring. _Click_.

Zayn and his squinty eyes, extending his arm out to show Louis his newest tattoo, _click_.

Louis biting his lip and shaking his head _no, I don’t have any tattoos_ because tattoos would mean shrugging off the blue and gray jumper which would mean everyone seeing the little rigid secrets on his arms, so _no, I don’t have one, but maybe someday mate_. _Click._

Louis laughing at Niall’s impression of his boss; his eyes squinting creating adorable crinkles, his pink lips stretching into a full blown grin showing off his laugh lines and high cheekbones—everything Harry had never seen before. _Click._

Louis starring at Harry with no expression on his face; eyes blue and just blue without any emotion; Harry hiding behind his pricey camera, watching Louis, learning about Louis, beers forgotten, the rest of the lads forgotten, just Louis the suicidal boy and Harry the frightened one. _Click._

Harry ends up ordering more beer after seeing Louis’ eye crinkles.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
